


Amid The Cold Of Winter

by syn0dic



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Christmas Fluff, M/M, VERY background deduenz and dimiclaude and marihilda, modern au baby!!!, no beta we die like Glenn, very convoluted airport karaoke and unresolved college tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21628318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syn0dic/pseuds/syn0dic
Summary: It's December 23rd, 2019, in the Minneapolis-Saint Paul International Airport, just after six in the evening, and there is a snowstorm. The statistical odds of meeting your college roommate again in a place like this are remarkably slim. But then again, Christmas is the season for the unlikely, and Claude and Lorenz have defied the odds.
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 8
Kudos: 99





	Amid The Cold Of Winter

Airports, thought Claude von Riegan, were a circle of hell all on their own. Time seemed to disappear the moment the whooshing automatic doors opened, hours spinning by on luggage carousels. Dizzying, and altogether too familiar for the young man. Even in the fluorescent lights that drowned the cement walls in an artificial wash of white, there was still something warm pouring out of the crevices. It might’ve been the way that everyone seemed to anticipate where they were going, or that the heaviness of winter coats was outweighed by something akin to comfort, or that the weird little pretzel stalls that only showed up in malls and airports smelled more like cinnamon than normal. But even with all of the exhaustion that burdened the glass and cement tangle, it felt like the holidays. December twenty-third, and he was standing in the Minneapolis Saint Paul terminal from Houston, and dreading the drive back to his apartment.

He glanced out the window at the dense pats of snow. Even if his family didn’t usually do anything for Christmas, and he would probably just watch reruns of some old movie while drinking too-strong hot buttered rum, it would be nice to relax and watch the snow fall outside his window for a few hours into the night. Besides, he wasn’t flying overseas for a thoroughly sanitized, Americanized kitsch of a season.

But he didn’t want to go out into the snow yet. The cold was punishing, and Houston was a balmy fifty five. He was not yet ready for the reality check that the Great North’s winter would be, and carry-on over his shoulder, he slunk into one of the weird airport bars.

Some poor couple was squalling All I Want For Christmas Is You on a sad miniature stage that was no more than a foot above the rest of the floor, and clearly, both of them were having the times of their lives. He grinned calmly and approached, draping his gold puffy jacket over his shoulder.

“Irish coffee,” he said to the bartender, sliding his card on the counter, “and a running tab, thanks.” Claude then set to keenly observing the kind of people who would be at airport karaoke bars the day before Christmas. An older couple politely clapping. A man who seemed to be frantically checking his cell phone. A young woman who he swore couldn’t have legally bought the mixed drink she was sipping and seemed quite unnerved. A middle aged woman with an e-reader. And-- it couldn’t be. There was no possible way.

How long had it been? College? Three years?

“Lorenz,” said Claude, “what in God’s name are you doing in this frozen wasteland?”

The violet-haired man nearly jumped out of his skin. He looked almost exactly like Claude remembered him, minus the dastardly undercut he’d kept meticulously when they were younger. He was still willowy, sharp, and long, with such wide, stone-polished eyes that Claude could catch his own reflection in them, a coy smile on his reflected face. The long hair was becoming on him; it made him wonder what had compelled him to ever cut it.

“Claude von Riegan,” said Lorenz, looking up from his cellphone and shoving it into the pocket of his too-elegant wool coat, “isn’t it a funny coincidence running into you here?”

“Well, I’m laughing,” said Claude with a friendly smile. “Why exactly are you hanging out in…” He glanced up at the lit sign above the entrance. “Thousand Lakes Eco-Bar, two days before Christmas? Once again, if you wanted to experience the winter weather, couldn’t you have found a walk in freezer?” The thought of Lorenz weighed down by weather appropriate gear was enough to make Claude laugh.

“Heavens, no,” said Lorenz, the mid-Atlantic tinge Claude remembered fondly pulling through his voice. “I’m here on business, if you must know. It simply seems that the hotel shuttle is running more than a little late.”

“No better time filler than watching bad karaoke then, huh?” Claude leaned back a little as the bartender handed him his drink, the warm mug in his hand acting as a decent temporary companion.

A prim smile crossed Lorenz’s face. “Certainly. May I ask what you’re doing here?”

“I live here.” Claude shrugged.

“In the Minneapolis-Saint Paul airport.” Lorenz raised a thin brow.

“Absolutely. The laundromat facilities are decent, the benches are comfortable, and the bars are passable. Besides, I get free entertainment like this,” Claude said, gesturing to the couple on their second verse of I Got You, Babe by Sonny and Cher.

“Be serious,” reprimanded Lorenz, ever the stick-in-the-mud.

“I was serious. I live here. I know you’re never online, but you have to have opened Instagram at least twice in the last six months, right?”

“You don’t live in the airport, Claude.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got a nice apartment off Como, and I’m waiting around to call an Uber.”

“Oh my god, you live _here_ ,” said Lorenz. “I apologize sincerely, the jet lag has reduced my mind to paste.” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Hey, no harm no foul,” said Claude, setting down his jacket. “Can I get you anything? Please. For old time’s sake.”

“I’m fine,” Lorenz said, ever stiff.

“Bartender,” said Claude, “can I get a black tea hot toddy for this gentleman? A little on the weak side,” he said, smiling at Lorenz. He remembered this was a favorite of his, likely in no small part because when they were in college, it was cheaper to buy strong liquor and mix it yourself than it was to go out. He wondered if Lorenz still made a good cup of tea.

“There’s no need,” Lorenz protested politely.

“Regular strength, then,” said Claude.

“You are incorrigible.”

“And encourageable! You look tired.” Claude set his jacket on the back of one of the stools and sat, crossing his legs lazily, and took another sip of his coffee. Lorenz glanced at his smartwatch, sighed, and sat down, the wool coat elegantly sliding off his shoulders. For a moment, Claude could see it. He was tired. He was never good at hiding it.

“Tired is certainly a way to describe it. Business is well, but winter is the hectic season for technical difficulties and new investment ventures. And the expectations are unequivocally high for me especially.”

“So I’m guessing you get most of your shut-eye eleven thousand feet up.” Claude stretched his shoulders and took another sip, noting that Lorenz dove into business before personal matters.

“It is simply the nature of the position.” The bartender set down the cup and saucer for Lorenz. “Thank you,” he said with a light sip. “I wasn’t aware you’d moved this far away.” Leicester University was ever distant, a prestigious university in New York where they’d both met lifelong friends, and even after only three years, it felt like another world.

“You go where the job takes you,” he shrugged. “Got a start on a nice campaign with a senator and stuck around. No offense, Gloucester, but you have to check social media now and then, right? Something other than LinkedIn?”

“I don’t really have any interest in wasting my time on the sound bites people fling onto Facebook.” Lorenz glanced at his smart watch as it informed him a call was coming in. “Pardon me, I have to take this,” he said, stepping outside for a moment. Claude shook his head.

_“So what are you doing over the break?” Claude was haphazardly throwing clothes off the floor into a duffel indiscriminately, with no apparent rhyme or reason, while his roommate looked on in horror._

_“I intend to go home. I’m spending Christmas with my mother, and New Year’s with my father.” Lorenz set down his class bag onto the seat and observed. “I see you’re making your departure, I won’t keep you.”_

_“That’s boring,” said Claude, grinning and stepping back to get a larger picture of his work in progress. “Oh, socks.”_

_“Is what you’re doing any more interesting?” Lorenz sat down on his made bed._

_“Yeah. I’m going home too. Hand me the toothbrush on the sink, will you?”_

_“Oh,” said Lorenz. “You must be flying, then.”_

_“I’m not walking to Mashhad,” said Claude with a shrug. “Don’t worry, I’ll only tell my parents good things about you.”_

_“Is there any other sort of thing to tell?”_

_“Do you want my honest answer?” Claude forced the duffel’s top down and zipped it._

_“Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked.” Lorenz opened his phone. “Make sure to say goodbye to everyone.”_

_“I already did,” said Claude, throwing his chargers and laptop into his backpack. “I wanted to say a special goodbye to you. Believe it or not, I’ll miss you.”_

_“Miss me? Hardly,” said Lorenz. “You’ll miss me cleaning up after you.”_

_“That too. But can I hug you?” Claude picked up his jacket. “I gotta be at JFK in, like, an hour.”_

_Lorenz stood up, stiffly, uncomfortably, in the agonized way he so often pretended to dislike Claude, and Claude wrapped him in a tight hug. Perhaps Lorenz was all angles and edges, and stiffer than a board, but even as Claude squeezed his shoulders in the familiar way he had hugged friends and family a thousand times, he could feel him soften a little. He wasn’t so frigid at all. In fact, thought Claude, he was a little soft._

_“Here,” he said, reaching into the drawer of his desk and pulling out a wrapped dark red package smaller than a matchbox. “This is yours. Open it,” said Claude, handing it to Lorenz._

_“I can’t accept this,” said Lorenz. “I didn’t realize we were exchanging gifts.”_

_“It’s fine! Consider it payback for all the times you’ve done me solids around here. Open it!”_

_Hesitantly, Lorenz peeled back the wrappings. “Bluetooth headphones?” He had been using the plain ones which came with his phone or the headset with his computer for a long time now._

_“Yeah. It’s because you complain that I’m too loud when you’re trying to sleep. Now,” said Claude, “it won’t be a problem.”_

_“How very considerate of you. Thank you, Claude,” said Lorenz, sitting back down, clearly a little surprised._

_“Don’t mention it,” said Claude._

“Unbelievable,” said Lorenz, shaking his head as he walked back inside. “They’re not running shuttles due to inclement weather. How preposterous! What are they expecting me to do? Snowshoe to the hotel?”

Claude snorted. “Maybe. It’s a good leg workout.”

“How will you be getting home?” Lorenz raised a thin eyebrow.

“Don’t worry about me. What were you saying before you got the call?”

“I can’t quite recall.” Lorenz raised another sip of his drink to his lips. “You must be in touch with everyone from University. If I remember correctly, everyone adored you.”

“Yeah, basically,” said Claude with a sly grin. “Hilda and Marianne got engaged, but you must’ve known that one.”

“Marianne informed me,” said Lorenz fondly-- Claude guessed they were still friends.

“Ah, so you do know how to keep in touch with people,” Claude said.

“Of course I do,” said Lorenz curtly.

“Hm.” A sinking pit of a feeling had snuck up on Claude. Lorenz simply hadn’t kept in touch with him. He’d considered Lorenz one of his better friends, but the feeling must not have been mutual.

A quiet blanket of uncomfortable tension settled over the both of them like snow settled on rooftops-- like it wanted to be shaken off. Lorenz took another sip of his drink and tucked his phone into his pocket, pretending to renew his confidence.

“Are you seeing anyone new?” Lorenz stared down into his cup, wondering if Claude had ever detected the unspoken delicate dance between them in their school days.

“After the messy breakup with Dima?” He shook his head. “No. On and off dates here and there, but nobody new.”

“I see,” said Lorenz, both saddened and relieved.

“How about you? With a sharp haircut like that, there’s no way the boys aren’t lining up.”

“No,” said Lorenz, stirring his drink with the tiny spoon. “Dedue and I broke up after college. Different career directions. Besides, he’s too gentle in temperament for me to have strung him along. It would have been quite self-centered of me.”

“And you really haven’t seen anyone since then? I find that difficult to believe.”

“My father,” said Lorenz, almost resentful in tone, “has some pronounced opinions on matters of human sexuality. When I work as closely with him as I do, any difficulty dating is exacerbated by magnitudes.”

“I do remember you mentioning that,” admitted Claude. “That sucks.”

“I suppose _sucks_ is one word for it.” Lorenz stirred his drink absently, and Claude finished the bottom of his mug.

“You remember that Christmas you came back and you, me, and Raph had that brandy hot chocolate at the apartment instead of going home?”

“Barely,” said Lorenz with an easy, restrained smile. “Do I want to know why you’re asking?”

“You know, I believe I still have that video of you singing Abba’s Super Trouper saved.”

“If you have any mind for either of our professional careers, then it will stay off of social media.”

“No, no. That’s not what I meant.” The bartender slid Claude a second Irish coffee, which he took a first foamy sip from. “I meant you have a good voice, and I know you can do karaoke.”

“ _No._ ”

“Come on. I’ll do it too! I can even go first!”

“If you want to publicly make a fool of yourself, then you’re free to.”

“Tis the season,” said Claude with a grin, signing up for the next slot on the whiteboard. Lorenz rolled his eyes as Claude sat back down.

“I can scarcely believe you. You approach me after three years of being completely in the dark, buy me a drink, and demand I join you in an egregious display of impropriety.” Lorenz shook his head and finished his drink-- somehow these were not as strong as he recalled them being when he was a student.

“Sounds about right. And,” he said, holding up his pointer finger, “a phone does go both ways.”

“But why didn’t you call me? Or say _something_? We were roommates for four years and you didn’t call me once!” The weight of all of this frustration that had sat on his chest was spilling out of Lorenz, confusion and exhaustion and all of his exasperation laid bare. “I missed you!”

“And onstage next,” said the voice of the unenthused server at the microphone who was clearly only trying to get their night’s wages and go home, “Claude will be singing a cover of Wham’s Last Christmas.”

“Actually, scratch me,” he said, looking back to Lorenz.

“No, by all means, go sing,” said Lorenz, looking to the bartender for another drink, embarrassed and frustrated, bristling at Claude’s apparent obliviousness.

“Can we _talk_?” What a thing that was to consider.

“I’d rather forget I said a word. Get up there.” He waved his hand and hung his head in his other.

Claude’s performance was lackluster, and he had picked it half in the hopes of being able to ham it up and kid around with Lorenz about that way he blushed when Claude winked at him back in the day. But Lorenz didn’t look up. Claude sat back down beside him, ignoring the applause, and leaned against the bar, picking his drink back up.

“Was it that embarrassing?” He leaned down to catch Lorenz’s eyes, that sharp nose of his firmly lodged in his phone as he clacked out dry replies to business emails.

“No,” said Lorenz firmly.

“Well, could we have a conversation? Please.”

“Claude,” said Lorenz, putting his phone down on the counter, “I find myself grasping at straws here. What are you expecting from me at this point?”

“I…” Claude swallowed. “Lorenz, can I be honest?”

“This would be a first.” It was mean of him to say such things, Lorenz knew, but a good offense was a good defense.

“Fine. I was _worried_ about you. You’re impossible to check in on, since you aren’t on any social media. Nobody had heard from you except for Marianne in months. You work constantly, hell, you’re in Forbes but that’s the last place I saw a picture of you. I’m usually too busy or too tired to call, and I don’t even know _how_ to talk to you at that point. So I saw you here, and I thought, it’s the holidays. Wouldn’t it be nice to see an old friend? And we’re both alone this year, you can’t lie to me, and you know what? Maybe I just wanted to see you again. Because I miss you too.” He took another sip of his drink. “So much for old times.”

“Claude, I apologize.”

“Don’t sweat it. Miscommunications, am I right?” Lorenz had always danced around everything; Claude had forgotten that sometimes he just needed to be blunt.

“It does happen. Perhaps we should get in better contact?” He pursed his lips. “I still won’t redownload Snapchat, before you suggest it.” Claude snorted.

“Nah. I know you don’t have Instagram, but--”

“I could remake one.” He turned over his phone in his hands. “I’ve been thinking about it. It’s a very primitive way to check in on old friends, but at the very least, it’s better than nothing in a pinch.”

“I think that’s...the spirit.” Claude pulled out his phone-- which he hadn’t checked since deboarding, and had ten thousand notifications. “Here. You want me to help you set it up?”

“I remember how to do it. I had an Instagram freshman year,” he said, opening the app store on his phone. “It can’t have changed that much, can it?”

“More than you’d think,” said Claude, opening his. “Here. You can post bigger pictures than squares now, and you can post multiple, too. There’s stories and messages, too. Oh, gotta check this one,” he said, opening the group chat between him, Leonie, and Ignatz where they shared memes-- it was usually dead, but this was a twist of fate.

“Is that…”

“Yeah,” said Claude, pulling up both of their profiles. Leonie had a happy selfie with their old TA, the both of them smiling in front of a sign to Great Smoky Mountains National Park as Christmas lights were draped over Byleth’s scarf. The both of them had a sisterly relationship these days, and Leonie had taken it in stride.

“I haven’t heard from either of them in months,” said Lorenz fondly. “Perhaps I should’ve made an account with more haste.”

“Maybe,” said Claude as he picked up Lorenz’s phone. “What username do you want?”

“Try…” Anything with his name would by default be professionally associated, so that was off limits. “Try to see if this is free,” he said, typing in a username he liked. Not open. Claude snatched the phone back and added an underscore.

“Now it is,” he said. “Here, follow _me_ first.” He punched in his username and hit _follow_ , handing the phone back to Lorenz. Lorenz was about to go through his list of mutuals to find their old friends, but hesitated over a picture Claude had posted.

It was the anniversary of their friends’ first Christmas party, seven years and two weeks ago. All of them were laughing and holding up joke gifts, and Hilda, who had taken the selfie, was making a goofy face while Marianne ducked behind her. Byleth presided over all of it, and Leonie was saying something Lorenz was scowling comically at, although he couldn’t remember what it was. Claude sat in the very middle, laughing in a way Lorenz could almost hear in the still photograph, bright and alive. And they’d remembered such good times, all these years later.

“Are you tearing up?” Claude looked at the picture.

“No,” said Lorenz, blinking his burning eyes. “But I must say. Those were good times.”

“You know, we were talking about a New Year’s bash in DC. Lysithea isn’t comfortable traveling, but her parents have more than enough room for guests.”

“Is she well?” Lorenz asked concernedly.

“Her words are that there’s good days and bad days. Even at her worst, though, she’ll still chew you out for babying her.”

“That does sound like her,” said Lorenz with a softened smile.

“Yep. But are you busy for the New Year? I’ve got tickets.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Claude. I actually have a consultation already scheduled for New Year’s Eve.” Lorenz chewed his lip. “But perhaps my father could take it if I were to postpone it a few days. I might spend more time at O’Hare than I do at home, but in this situation, it is a worthy cause.”

“I’ll add you to the group chat,” said Claude, following Lorenz back and adding him to the chat before putting his phone away. “Man, you know what?”

“What?” said Lorenz, humoring him.

“You could come back with me. Your hotel fell through, you don’t have a ride, and it just so happens that I live here and can call us both an Uber. Call that freaky circumstances.”

“I refuse to inconvenience you, Claude von Riegan.”

“You’re not inconveniencing me. Come on, the place is empty. Wouldn’t it be nice? And probably a little more comfortable than a hotel.”

“I won’t get my deposit--”

“Lorenz, your dad runs a billion dollar energy corporation.”

“Touche. I’ll strike a deal with you.” Claude listened intently, and Lorenz fixed his features into a stern gaze. “Do you happen to recall the apple cinnamon hangover pancakes you used to make?”

“They’re still the only thing I can cook,” said Claude.

“Seeing as it is a federal holiday, and I am a guest, I feel that it would be quite considerate of you to make them for me.”

“Sure. One condition.” Claude grinned. “Sing with me.”

The slow, jazzy intro of one of the early renditions of Baby, It’s Cold Outside played, and Lorenz felt himself go red as the ornaments on the chintzy decorated tree. A single thought went through his mind: he was not drunk enough for this. He clutched the microphone awkwardly and Claude smiled at him reassuringly.

“I’ll take the low parts,” said Claude. “Take it away,” he said, as Lorenz missed the first beat.

“I really can’t stay,” he sang, his voice faltering only slightly at the beginning.

“But baby, it’s cold outside,” came in Claude smoothly.

“I’ve got to go away,” sang Lorenz more confidently.

“But baby, it’s cold outside!”

They made a good show of it, at least, thought Lorenz, the both of them standing back to back-- the final “Ah, but it’s cold outside!” _almost_ harmonious. Claude winked at him, and the entire audience, all eight people, clapped. Lorenz turned a vivid red, laughing nervously as he set the microphone back down, while Claude took a bow.

“Now,” Claude said, “I’m calling an Uber. Grab your stuff.” He picked up his coat, throwing it on and picking his duffel bag back up. “Uh, they’re apparently eleven minutes away. They’re picking us up at terminal C20.”

“Which is how far away?” Lorenz didn’t come through the twin cities enough to know the airport well.

“Far. You wanna run?” Claude’s pace went from a walk to a near-jog

“I don’t have a choice!” Lorenz trailed him, but his long legs lent him a speed advantage.

“Keep up!” called Claude, and about five minutes of outright running in winter jackets while dragging luggage along later, they were at the right terminal. “We’re watching for...a grey sedan.” He looked up. There were three grey sedans. He shivered a little-- oh, how he wished to go back to Houston. Fifty five. What was it here? Nineteen?

“Very detailed.” Lorenz peered out over the sea of cars for one with the little Uber light that matched the description. “What are the plates?”

“Uh…says they’re supposed to be Idaho plates. ITR-3876.”

“That’s it,” said Lorenz, pointing. The car pulled up and parked. A young woman was driving and she waved, her perky, Midwest smile and pink cheeks perfectly hospitable.

“After you,” said Claude, holding open the door for Lorenz, who sat in the middle and put his bag on the left, stacking Claude’s on top of his own. Claude sat on the right.

“Hey, you guys,” said the driver, glancing at them in the rearview. “2260 Scudder Street?”

“Yep,” said Claude, looking at the road as they drove away from the airport along I-35.

“I never saw your apartment pictures,” said Lorenz thoughtfully.

“Then you’ll be surprised,” said Claude.

“Pleasantly or unpleasantly?” asked Lorenz.

“Hard to tell,” said Claude. “How long will I have to put up with you?”

“I don’t have the consultation here in Saint Paul with the Hamline board until the twenty-seventh.” Lorenz leaned lazily against Claude.

“Then why are you here so early, if you don’t mind me asking?” Claude tilted his head, wondering if the driver was listening, or if either of them had any reason to care.

“I didn’t want to spend the only bright spot in my year with my father,” said Lorenz. “And my mother passed away in April. I don’t want to be around my grandparents right now.”

“I had no idea,” said Claude. “I-- I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine. I was hoping to see some snow, anyways.” Lorenz clearly didn’t want to talk about it.

“No shortage of it,” said Claude, melting ever so slowly. “So we get to have Christmas together. Shit, I’m going to have to decorate.”

“There’s no need to impress me.”

“But what’s the fun in not trying?” Claude leaned against the window.

“You may be right,” said Lorenz. “But I can handle most of the cooking. Lord knows that you probably still burn almost everything.”

“Yeah,” said Claude. “Chinese takeout can only go so far, anyways.” He watched the snow fall as the driver pulled up to their street, and he noted to himself to tip well as the both of them got out, climbing the stairs to his small apartment. He wondered if he’d picked up his underwear off the floor or not. He’d have his answer soon enough.

Unlocking with a stiff, icy click, heat spilled out the front door. No garments on the floor, but books were strewn about and his laptop had been left open beside a ramen cup. “Sorry about the mess,” he said, dropping his bag.

“It’s so very you,” said Lorenz. “Where do I put my things?”

“Bedroom,” he said, walking to the hallway and opening one of the two doors. “I’ll take the couch. I know you’re picky.”

“I can’t possibly steal your bed from under you,” said Lorenz, brow furrowed. “I can sleep on the couch.”

“It’s fine,” said Claude. “I’m getting in the shower. We can put on a movie, it’s only, like, eight.”

“It’s so dark outside,” said Lorenz, looking out the window. “Can I make some drinks?”

“There’s Swiss Miss in the cabinet,” said Claude, walking into his messy bedroom and picking out his thermal pajamas. “I’ll be out in, like, twenty minutes.”

When he walked back out, Lorenz was in the kitchen making hot chocolate and had the television going, quietly, in the background, and had turned on the single strand of Christmas lights on the back patio, illuminating the fat white snowflakes as they fell. There was almost something romantic about it.

“Put on whatever you want. I’m not picky,” said Lorenz, though Claude doubted that statement. He flopped onto the couch and reached for the bright yellow knit afghan he’d brought to college.

“Is the Harry Potter marathon okay?”

“Sure,” said Lorenz, sitting down beside him and handing him the hot chocolate. Claude took a sip, burning his mouth, and blew on it before taking another.

“How do you make it so good?”

“You’re supposed to use two packets for mugs this size,” shrugged Lorenz.

“Huh,” said Claude, who never read the directions. “Blanket?” He held it up at the corner, noticing Lorenz was probably cold. Lorenz scooted under it with a nod, and they watched in exhausted, peaceful quiet for a few minutes.

“Thank you,” said Lorenz.

“Hey, you would do the same for me,” said Claude lazily, nursing the end of his hot cocoa.

“If you ever need a place to stay in Chicago, then I’d happily take you in,” he agreed. “I simply feel badly about our previous altercation, and am grateful that you’ve shown me such kindness in spite of it.”

“I mean,” said Claude, “I understand why you were upset.” To articulate it now would be too much for the both of them; Claude would leave the tension unspoken, but acknowledged. “We missed out on a lot.”

“I’ll bring you up to speed,” said Lorenz with a yawn, setting down his mug on the glass-top coffee table. “Tomorrow.” He leaned against Claude, whose wide shoulders made for nice enough cushions. Within a few minutes he was asleep-- that was what jet lag did to a person, thought Claude, though not without affection.

After about half an hour of The Goblet of Fire, Claude turned off the television and the lights from his phone, leaving only the Christmas lights on. Lorenz slept with his mouth open, a little bit of drool trailing out of his elegant mouth. It was almost cute, he thought, watching out the window as the snow fell, the white curtains a veil between the cold, wintery bluster outside, and the warm comfort here, with Lorenz, on the couch in his home. This was home. And maybe, it was the first time, he thought as the clock on his microwave hit midnight, that it had felt like it.


End file.
